


A Story A Day May: Collection

by ICryYouMercy (TrafalgarsLaw)



Category: 16th & 17th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, The Charioteer - Mary Renault, The Musketeers (2014), The Thick of It (TV), due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 20,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1570412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrafalgarsLaw/pseuds/ICryYouMercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various unconnected short stories written for A Story A Day May</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Going Down In Flames

There is a certain amount of societal expectations when it comes to secondary school. Because primary school and kindergarden, that's supposed to be easy and simple and fun, that's where you get to be a child. And the first few years of secondary school, you're just supposed to be a teenager and have ill-advised crushes on celebrities and classmates, but you'll grow out of that, and then you'll go on, then there are the final years, where you can still be a child for a few years before university and work call. And you're supposed to enjoy those years, that's what they're here for. That's what everyone tells you. To enjoy it, to make friends for life, to learn all the important things you will need later on.

And most people do that, it seems. They make friends, and they figure out who they want to be and how to get there. They're normal and stable and reasonable, and they do what's expected of them.  
And then, there are the others. The ones that never quite fit in, the ones that never know quite how to get things done. The ones that years down the line, everyone has forgotten about because they're not normal, they're not people. They don't matter.

Malcolm used to be one of them. And to this day, he still isn't entirely certain how he survived, how he got out of it, found a university where he fit in just well enough to graduate, get into politics and government, and then ended up being the one shouting the orders at everyone else. Because surely that wasn't how it was supposed to go. And yet, it did, and Malcolm isn't complaining.

Instead he takes the undeserved luck he got, and he tries to make the best of it. And he picks up people along the way, kids like him, people who everyone thought would just disappear before they even turned twenty. Jamie was the first one, rough around the edges and drunk more often than not. Malcolm needed a friend and Jamie needed an enemy, and they were both so far out of place that there was no one else they could have turned to.

And then Sam, shy and uncertain, stumbled into the mess that he and Jamie made of everything, and tried to clean up, tried to keep them from killing each other. And Malcolm looked at her, looked at Jamie and decided that one more messed-up, helpless kid wouldn't make a difference, really.

And then, of course, things had to go wrong. Because suddenly, they were part of a dysfunctional government, and there were people to shout at, and people to threaten, and things started to go wrong, because that was what things did.

And once upon a time, Malcolm might have thought that he could have done better, that he would have fixed all the things wrong, and that he wouldn't have forgotten how it felt to live under the laws they passed. Once upon a time, Malcolm might have been exactly the kind of idealist that tended to fuck up worst. But nowadays, with Sam and Jamie at his side, and a few decades' worth of experience, he had learned to accept that people would just always be fundamentally people, and the ones qualified to get into government were hardly ever the ones qualified to govern.

He ran damage control, and tried to keep the more egregious crimes against common sense from happening. He shouted orders and cursed and screamed, and people fell in line and did as they were told, and for a few years, Malcolm managed to keep it together for a few years. And then Nicola came along, and everything just went to shit. And Jamie left, and Sam gave up, and Malcolm decided that it really wasn't worth it.

He was going to go down, he knew that much. That was what kids like him did, and he might have kept going for far longer than most people thought possible, but there had never been any chance of winning. And so he picked up a stolen medical file, and a phone, and decided that he might as well go down in flames.


	2. AccidentallyTimetraveling!Kit

One of the best things about modern days is the dancing, Kit is convinced. He could do without the identity politics and gay rights movements, and he's not entirely certain about food or clothes or living arrangements, and it's decidedly weird not to be sharing a bed.

But the dancing, he likes the dancing. Not because of the music, not so much, but because of the closeness. It's not highly structured and regular and proper and decent anymore, it's messy and clumsy, and it's the perfect excuse to be touching people. And he likes touching people. It's another thing he misses, the casual, careless touches and closeness, the spaces where it's not weird to just kiss someone simply for the joy of kissing them.

But that is neither here nor there, when the people he would loved to have kissed like that are long dead, centuries dead already, and most of the people around him are good people, decent people, and Kit might even like some of them. But they're still wrong, and it might be alright with him, it has to be, Cole Porter songs running through his head, trying to convince himself that it's fine, it's fine, he can deal with this.  
He can't. And so he spends his nights dancing and his days asleep, writing occasionally, reading a lot, and every now and again it hits him, when he turns to show something to Tom or Will or Ben, and then remembers that they just aren't here anymore, none of them are, and it's been so long, and he's still not used to it, doubts he'd ever be.

And it's the end of April, and Kit is trying his best not to think about it, because he doesn't have any right to be sad, not when he was the one to go and get stabbed, not when Will was the one left behind, but his face is all over every library and bookstore, and the continuous reminders of what they had, and how it all ended, and Kit's heart is doing its best to break again, in spite of all the times Kit told himself that it's been so long already, and he should finally stop being sad.

It's that day, the day he won't name, won't even think about. And so he goes out, tries to get drunk enough to forget, too drunk to do any proper dancing, just letting himself be shoved around in a mass of people, and they are all going to be dead one day, and Kit is going to survive them all, and there is no use in trying to make any friends, in trying to love anyone, because he's going to be the one left behind no matter what. And it hurts less if he doesn't care. He's learned that much at least.

And then there is an arm around his shoulders, and another arm around his back, and there is someone standing in front of him, holding him close, a solid, immovable rock amidst the dancers. Kit thinks that maybe he should try to get away, he shouldn't let himself be restrained like that by complete strangers.

And then the hand grasping his shoulder moves upwards, spans the back of his head, and Kit finds his face pressed into the stranger's neck, and he can't help breathing in, he can't just endlessly hold his breath in a situation like that. And it hits him like a sledgehammer to his face, like running full speed into a wall, that smell. Sweat and smoke and dirt and make-up and indian ink, and there are tears in Kit's eyes, because this used to be home, long, long ago. This used to be home.

They're moving again, the stranger all but carrying Kit, because there is no way that Kit's legs would hold him up now, not when that smell is all that his brain is currently capable of processing, not when he's helplessly sobbing and homesick and heartbroken and lost, not when every last wall he's built over the years has been torn down by a single cruel reminder of what he had lost.

There are voices, voices about how they've found him, and how it was going to be just fine, and they must be outside, because the music was gone, as was the smell of perfume and laundry detergent and sugary drinks. And Kit can't stop sobbing, can't let go, can't move his head, because if he does, then the illusion might break, then he would be back in the present day and time, and worst of all he would be lonely again.

There are more people around him, touching him, and he should do something about this, he really should, but he doesn't have the energy right now, not on this day of all days. And then the hand on the back of his head grabs his hair, forces him to look up, straight into eyes he'd never dreamed to meet again. And there are lips on his, a soft kiss, just a reassurance, light as a feather, and Kit manages to smile through his tears when he realises that they're all here, Will and Ben and the Toms, and they're all smiling at him, self-satisfied and happy, and Kit would ask how they found him, but right now, none of that matters. Right now, he needs to kiss Will again, just to make sure he's not dreaming, and then kiss Tom because he's missed him, missed sharing a bed and a room and a life. And he kisses Ben because whyever not, because Ben is the one keeping them together and keeping them safe, and being reasonable and helpful and stable, when all of them are just falling apart. And then he kisses the other Tom, the one who isn't his, because he can and because it's been years, and because it's fun kissing Tom, the way he draws back and wipes his mouth and makes a face at Kit.  
He's missed them, and it seems they've missed him too, the way they won't stop touching him.

The way they don't stop touching each other, Kit notices. It can't have been long, and the way Ben is just looking at them, fond and exasperated, tells Kit exactly why it hasn't been. Because someone needed to keep it together for long enough to collect them, one by one, and Ben would be the only one sane and stable enough to do that.

And Kit would kiss him again, but right now they need to get inside, somewhere, somewhere safe, where they won't be interrupted or sent away. Because this is the exact sort of thing that needs a cuddle-pile to end all cuddle-piles, because they're not alone anymore. They're not lost anymore, not when they finally have each other again.


	3. Elegia XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For cakesandfail, because I did mention canon-era texting fic. Sorry it got sad, though. That wasn't my original intention.

It's been weeks since the last time Will received a note in the middle of work. And maybe he should be happy, being able to go about his daily business without the constant interruptions Kit caused. But it's just not the same without Kit, without Tom.

Maybe they were right when they said that Sidney had been the first time they had been reminded of their own mortality. But Kit and Tom, that's what's hit them all hardest. Kit and Tom and the proof that no matter how brilliant they were, no matter how high they were flying, nothing would keep them from falling.

And so Will stands in an empty arena, staring at a handful of players trying their best to get through a play Will can't bring himself to care about. He knows he should, he knows that in spite of all of their differences, and in spite of all their petty rivalries, stopping now would be the worst possible thing he could do, and Kit would never stop needling him for it.

And the second that thought occurs to him, he almost, almost just drops everything and runs. Because maybe, maybe, maybe, he might at least get a decent haunting out of it, he might get Kit back, even if he's just a ghost, and even if he would be so disappointed, because even a disappointed Kit is better than none at all.

He takes a breath, draws himself up to his full height, ready to just send everyone home, and just not try again. They would find someone else, there are enough theatres and companies in the city. The only one lost would be him, and with Kit gone, Will isn't entirely sure he wants to be found at all.

And then there is a hand on his shoulder, and a note in his hand. By the time he turns around, Ben is already gone, but there is no one else who would have done something like that, and Ben certainly is the only one who would have to leave this quickly. Will's players don't like him too much, not after that one incident with the goat and the Italian tradesman.

Will heaves a sigh, and unfolds the note. He can postpone giving up for another short while. It's Ovid. Kit's Ovid, his translation scribbled between the lines, awkward and messy. Will clenches his jaw, tries not to think anything of it, tries to blink his tears away, knows that if he starts crying now, he will never stop again. So he turns the note over, reads what Ben wants from him.

There are teardrops smudging the ink, now, and Will is sobbing helplessly, his hands clenched around the note.

_The frost-drad myrtle shall impale my head,_  
And of sad lovers I'll be often read.  
Envy the living, not the dead doth bite,  
For after death all men receive their right.  
Then when this body falls in funeral fire,  
My name shall live, and my best parts aspire. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The text of the note is Ovid's Elegia XV, and it's been translated by both Christopher Marlowe and Ben Jonson. And it's amazing, because it's twice the same poem, and yet it's two entirely different ones. The lines at the end are from Ben's translation, because it seemed appropriate, but Kit's translation is really worth looking up, as well.


	4. Quicksilver Lives

It's been almost three years, and there are days now when Will is almost fine, when he wakes up in the morning and manages to forget, even if just for a few moment, that it had been 1594, and a man had been stabbed over a tavern bill.

And he sits down and writes, Ben mocking him and Tom showing up with the occasional bit of advice, his players trying their best to keep up with him, trying to keep him from falling apart between one piece and the next. There will never be anyone quite like Kit, Will knows. This is a loss that can never be made up again, and Will can't help wonder what would have been, if Kit had had just a few more years, a few more moments, just another chance.

And so he writes about it, about being young and desperate and lost and helpless, he writes about being a kid in love, about playing a game that can't ever be won. He writes about a feud and two families and a love story that can't ever end well. And he writes about friends lost in a city and parents and authorities that don't understand. He writes as much of a happy end as he can, makes them realise their mistakes, and makes the ones who survived try to do better the next time.

And there's a boy, quicksilver wit and a mercurial temperament, doing all the things the others never dared to think, fighting a lost fight, and dreaming bigger dreams than anyone else in this lost city could conceive of.  
He thinks that maybe, maybe, he should care more about the lovers, and more about the romance, but there is no room for romance in a world like that, in a world where good people die for bad reasons. So the children die, one after the other, until none of them is left, until the parents are faced with five graves and regrets enough for several lifetimes.

And Will doesn't cry about those deaths. He made the characters live, and he made them die, and he does feel sorry for them, and he sometimes wishes he could have written it differently, could have found a solution that ended with a happily ever after.

But that one mercurial boy, the one who dies making jokes, the one whose death set everything in motion, the one whose downfall took the city with him. That one boy. Will might not care much about saving the lovers, might not care much about the parents having the bury their children.

He would not change it, even if he could. But when he hands the play over for a first reading, and when they stumble over lines, and there are giggles about a grave man, Will wishes more than anything that he could have saved Mercutio.

Bad jokes, and daring, and stick-fights, and late nights, and drinking, and a stubborn refusal to run from certain death. Cynicism, and mockery, and terrible advice, and a tendency to think the worst of everyone. A quick wit, and a mind sharp enough to cut itself to pieces, and a flame that burnt too bright to burn for long.  
Will wishes he could have saved Mercutio. Because that's the closest he could possibly get to saving Kit.

And when the play is finally entered with the stationer's register, and when Ben is standing next to him, watching the stage and the audience and the rain falling over the city, Will is grateful that the ink at least didn't smudge under his tears the way stage make-up does.

And Ben lays an arm over his shoulder, pulls him close, and spends the remainder of the play telling him helpless, comforting lies of things getting better, and when that doesn't help in calming Will's sobs, Ben starts talking about fate and destiny and heaven instead. Because if anyone deserved to go to heaven, if anyone deserved the forgiveness they were promised from the moment of their baptism, if anyone deserves so much better than he had ever gotten, it's Christopher Marlowe. And maybe, if Will can be a good person for however many years he might be granted yet, maybe they can meet again in a place where Kit won't need saving anymore.


	5. Prince Charming

Prince Charming

There is nothing princely about this city, nothing princely about the dirty, narrow streets and the constant noise and the stench of too many people living too close together. And there is nothing princely about them, no matter how often they put on crowns for an audience, and no matter how often they lose those crowns again.

But there is something about Kit. Something that keeps evading definition and description. And Will knows. He did, after all, spend quite some time trying. And yet, every time he thinks he might have something worth pursuing, Kit does something that is so completely and purely Kit, and something Will can't never fully capture in ink on a page, and he has to start anew.

And he did tell himself to never cross out his lines, and never throw out his writing, because it might be useful later on, he might be able to fit it into a play or a poem later on, and the ink and paper is too expensive to waste. So over the weeks and months he spends in the city, the notes start accumulating.

He met Kit when he came to London for the first time, and it went about as well as meeting Kit always did. And it would have been ridiculous, becoming so fixated on a stranger spilling a drink on him, Will knew that much. But Kit was the centre this place revolved around, the man everyone seemed to know, without really knowing him at all. Kit was the one they were so certain was going to make history one day, the only one of them with a solid chance of being remembered, if not for an eternity, then at least a few years past his death.

And every time the met again, every time when Will, more accidentally than consciously ended up seeing one of his plays yet again, every time Will stood surrounded by shouting, fighting people, helplessly awed at Kit's brilliance and power, it became easier to believe, and harder to describe.

And so Will writes and writes and writes and writes, and yet he never gets the words to come out right, and he would feel ashamed and embarrassed, he really would, but it's Kit, and he can't afford to let any sort of emotion show around Kit. So he decides to regard it as a form of exercise instead, trying to describe someone who resists all description, trying to write them down without killing them with a careless turn of phrase. How to write about someone in a way that doesn't make them perfect and untouchable, but instead paints the vibrant, and alive, and terrifying and beautiful and burning far too bright.  
How to celebrate humanity instead of erasing it.

And it doesn't work. It never works, not quite the way Will wants it to. But he can't bring himself to throw any of it out. And then Kit does what he always does, he shows up in the least convenient time and place, and there is nothing that could stop him from doing so. He stumbles into Will's room one night, for once more sober than not, and Will doesn't get a chance to hide the notes strewn all over the place, all the lines he's never wanted anyone to see, his heart on his sleeve and ready for breaking.

And he isn't sure what would be more terrifying, the thought that Kit might dislike his writing, or the thought that Kit might not even notice.

But he is young yet, and so the third, most terrifying option does not even begin to occur to him before it happens, and it won't for another few years. Because the third options is that Kit reads the papers, some of them, at least, and he looks at Will, and asks, strangely polite considering the situation, whether he might be allowed to kiss Will now.

And Will manages to stutter out a yes. He doesn't say much more that night. There is no need to.


	6. Puck goes to London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is probably going to be more of this. Because Midsummer Night's Dream mixed with renaissance playwrights is something that really needs to happen.

Midsummer's night doesn't mean the same thing these days as it used to. How could it, in the middle of a city, at the end of an era. And it might be bothersome, it might be boring, losing the one night of the year during which people were almost guaranteed to engage in clearly and obviously ill-advised behaviour.  
And Puck did worry for a while, back when the people stopped leaving out milk and cake, and stopped saying all the wrong things at all the wrong times in all the wrong places. It had been a tedious few decades, when Oberon went into hiding to sulk properly, and Puck was left to roam the woods on his own.  
And there had been a boy, in a small village by a river, a boy who seemed to live on words, a boy who seemed to genuinely enjoy grammar school, a boy who managed to get himself almost accidentally married. And Puck has learned to spot potential for mayhem. And this boy, he doesn't have potential. He is potential.  
And so when the boy runs off to London, Puck decides to follow him. There are precious few options for mischief available these days, and Puck is not willing to lose him yet.  
He did not realise that following that boy would just lead him into an entirely different forest, though. And this forest here does not sleep. There are parts that grow quite with the time of day or with the season, but the part of it the boy picked is much more to Puck's liking.  
Here, bad decisions are not an exception or a seasonal occurrence. Here, bad decisions are a way of life. And after the first few days of finding his place, Puck decides to simply watch for a while. It isn't much effort, causing mischief in a city that thrives on it.  
And the combination of that boy with that city is something Puck plans to enjoy observing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll finish this once i'm not running up against a too-short deadline, but for now, have a short description of the mess puck is having to work with

The first few weeks are easy. London is a big city, and Will is clever enough to find a place to fit in almost immediately. And if he was a magnet for mayhem all on his own, then the second he found friends, this was magnified by several times.

And that was winter yet, with the streets sunken under mud, and the weather too cold for drinking and theatre. And Puck found a place, somewhere on the rooftops, across the street from Will's lodgings, and he settled down to wait for summer.

Midwinter and Spring Equinox passed without much incident, and without much trouble. There was Nashe, who still was trying to find his feet, and who wrote severely dramatic poetry on stunningly ordinary subjects. And there was Kyd, whose choice in roommates left much to be desired, but he was a solid writer and a good drinker. And Kit, whose understanding of diplomacy, politics, and general good behaviour seemed to increase when he was too drunk to stand upright. And then, of course, there was Will, who was still more a boy than a man, and who seemed just a bit too young and too innocent for the big city, and who seemed more than willing to play up those aspects to his full advantage.

And then there was Puck's current favourite, a man by name of Ben. He didn't seem to be all that close to the other four, but he was usually the one dragging the other four boys home when they were too drunk to manage on their own. He was also the one using ink and feather to draw amusing sketches onto their foreheads once they were settled and sleeping off their drink.


	8. There is a stain

There is a stain on the front-seat. Something off-white and slightly flaky. It looks out of place on the leather, and Fraser can't help but notice. Ray doesn't seem to have seen it, which is strange, with how much he usually cares about his car.  
The spot doesn't seem to be going anywhere, and neither is the car. And there is nothing much happening that Fraser could direct his attention to outside the car. So Fraser decides that for now, he would like to know the story behind the only stain he had ever seen in that car.  
He reaches out to touch it, lightly at first, trying to get an idea of the general consistency of the mysterious substance. It is as flaky as it looks, but at the same time ever-so-slightly sticky. It's an altogether curious property for any substance to have, and Fraser can't think of anything that would profit from being both flaky and sticky.  
It doesn't emit any sounds or smells, which is not exactly surprising, but at the same time leaves nothing else to be done but taste it, if discovering the exact nature of the stain. The car still isn't moving, and Ray is still staring out of the windshield at something. Fraser looks at the stain again, licks the tip of his left indexfinger, rubs it against the stain, and raises his hand to his lips to lick the substance off.  
Fraser's finger is just about to touch his lips again when Ray looks over, and then freezes in something that might be shock.  
"Don't do that," he says, voice curiously flat.  
Fraser hesitates for a second, as though waiting for Ray to volunteer further information. When that doesn't seem to be happening, he shrugs and continues to lick the substance off his finger. It tastes artificial, and vaguely sweet. It even tastes sticky. It is, altogether, rather disgusting.  
Fraser is certain he should know what that substance is, but he can't quite place it yet.  
Ray, meanwhile, looks like he is desperately wishing to be somewhere else.  
There is a moment where neither of them say anything, and then they both start speaking at once.  
"What is…" Fraser starts.  
"Can't you…" Ray says.  
They stop.  
And with Ray not looking at Fraser, this process repeats twice more, before Fraser decides that if he is going to get any answers, politeness might not be the way to go.  
"What is this, precisely?" he asks, ignoring Ray's words for the moment.  
"Nothing. Really. Nothing. Nothing of your business, at least."  
Fraser considers his options. He could, of course, take this as his cue to drop the subject, and continue waiting for something to happen. He could also do the entertaining instead of the reasonable thing, and try to solve this riddle. The fact that this would most certainly annoy Ray is only an added bonus.  
He tastes the substance again.  
"It's … chemical," he says. "Something sweet and sticky, but probably not intended for human consumption. Probably used for cosmetic or hygiene purposes. Probably some form of gel when not dried out. Difficult to tell in this form, but something rather slippery, I would think. Also…"  
"It's lube," Ray interrupts him.  
"Lube?"  
"Lube."  
There is another moment. Ray is very determinedly staring at the steering wheel. Fraser is staring at the stain on the seat.  
"Uh. You shouldn't use something with such a high glycerine content. There's a risk of yeast infections and allergic reactions associated with such substances. And it tends to be rather difficult to clean, as well."  
Ray drops his head to the steering wheel. There is an explosion a few houses away from the car. A gun is shot, and someone comes running. And for the rest of the day, the two of them are far too busy chasing criminals to lose any further words on that particular subject.  
Something a bit more than two days later, with the gunman caught and the riddle solved, Ray is almost confident that Fraser decided to simply forget about that conversation in the car.  
Of course, that was before he saw the unmarked, suspiciously inconspicuous paperbag on his desk. There is a plastic bottle inside. Its label informs Ray that its contents are free of oil, glycerine, and sugar.  
Ray doesn't blush. Neither does he thank Fraser. He does, however, decided that today, he might actually change his bedsheets. And maybe ask Fraser to have dinner with him.


	9. Chapter 9

Some days are bad days, and there is nothing to be done about it. And those days, it's generally best to stay in bed, read a book, have some tea and try not to do much. It doesn't always work, and it's not always possible.  
But usually, a good book and tea will improve most things, and the things it can't improve, it will at least soothe or delay.  
And if a book and tea won't suffice, there is always chocolate.  
And if nothing helps, there is the option of just sleeping a while. Turn it off and on again.


	10. Chapter 10

When Fraser had come back to Chicago after his holidays, and a strange, blond man had replaced Ray Vecchio, he had been so sure that there was no way he would ever be friends with this man. He had never met anyone so unlike his Ray, anyone so unlike him.  
And then there had been shouting and fighting, and a few murders, and less than a month later, Fraser found himself watching baseball and eating pizza with the new Ray, and wondering what had just happened.


	11. Chapter 11

The copy he's currently working from is not a good one, and Kit knows that much. Partly because he knows not to expect better from such a cheap print, and partly because he used to own a much better copy. One he had carefully and thoroughly annotated and commented, one that had looked as well-used and well-loved as any book ever could.

He misses that copy now, misses the notes he made during long, lonely nights in a room that was colder than any single one room should be capable of being. He had loved university, had loved the books and the learning and the stories and the history and the words, so many words. He hadn't loved the company, and the isolation, and the neatly planed, regulated disobedience.  
And Ovid, much as Kit did not understand large parts of his love poetry, was the best sort of consolation he could hope for.

And so he just picks his way through smudged letters, and uneven lines, and doubly printed or badly-corrected letters, switched lines and words. He knows his Ovid well enough to correct some of the more egregious mistakes. And yet, he doesn't get past the eight elegy of the first book, when he stumbles on a word he can't deal with. As much as he can make up in the bad light, on bad paper, the line reads something like _si te non emptam vellet amandus erat_. And he knows that that's not true, both as a student of Ovid, and as a poet himself. But as a translator, that doesn't help him in the least, not when there is no indication whatsoever where the mistake might be, if there even is one. So he does the best he can, _Would he not buy thee, thou for him shoulds't care_ , knowing full well that it's wrong, but helpless to fix it.

There are minor stumbling blocks, words that seem not quite right, but they aren't as out of place as _amandus_ was, and so Kit tries to overlook them, keep working as though there was nothing wrong, do his best to ignore the unhappy, nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He gets to the second book, the fifth elegy, when there are two lines, following each other closely that just do not scan, and he knows that there is something wrong with them, there is something wrong with the words, because they don't make any sense, and Kit can't force them, no matter how long he tries. And so he tries his best, and wishes he had not lost that book.

It's the next line that finally makes him resign, though. _Psittacus, Eois ales mihi missus ab Indis_ , it reads. And Kit sighs deeply and finally does what he had hoped to avoid since he started his translations. He takes his Ovid, and a notebook, and goes to find Ben.

Ben laughs at him more than he helps him, and he is just as correct and arrogant in this as he is in everything else. But he pays the tavern bills and kisses Kit when the words get to be too much and Kit can't handle them anymore, and he makes sure that Kit finds his way back to his bed again when they've spent another night drinking and despairing about a copy that seems to consists almost entirely out of mistakes.  
And Kit decides the trade is more than worth it, as much for the Latin as for the kisses.


	12. Chapter 12

Will's father had told him that no work was beneath him, and that any job worth doing was worth doing was worth doing well, and Will remembers believing him. These days, however, he isn't so certain anymore. These days, he works early mornings and late nights, making coffee for people who complain for the sake and complaining, and who are more than willing to blame him for anything that might have gone wrong during the course of their day.

And he knows he's lucky, knows that this job, tedious and soul-sucking though it may be, does at least pay for rent and food and books and university. Also, it affords him an excellent opportunity to observe other people, their minor and major problems and troubles and fights, the way they fall in and out of love, the despair about deadlines and risks.

And the nights, between school and work, he writes down everything he sees and knows and thinks, the same story over and over again, changing faces and places and names, ever-changing side-plots and endings, and he tells himself that one day, if he gets through this, if he hands in his papers on time and doesn't bother his lecturers and professors too much, he might get out of this, might find someone willing to pay for the stories he tells. But everyone fancies themselves and author these days, and it's little more than a fond dream.

Of course, that's the moment when Kit Marlowe stumbles into their small coffee shop, six o'clock in the morning, hung-over, a split lip and a blue eye, looking as though he came straight from a rather unpleasant encounter with a rather angry train. He stumbles to the counter, and doesn't give Will a chance to say anything, just slaps a handful of coins on the fake wood, and mumbles something that might have been a word coming from someone either more sober or more awake.

"Coffee?" Will asks.

"Mgrmbl," Kit replies.

Will goes to make him a cup of coffee. He manages not to do anything embarrassing or terrible, and not five minutes later Kit is on his way again, face hidden in a cardboard cup containing more caffeine than a reasonable person should consume in a full day.

And then, alone again, Will goes to find his notebook and a pen, and writes down something that we would firmly delay later to be the manual equivalent of a keysmash, with several repetitions of the name Kit Marlowe, and a few hastily drawn and crossed-out hearts. It takes him a full morning's work before he is able to add 'drinks too much, apparently used to getting beaten up, expensive taste, reckless'.

The next day, Will takes along a copy of Doctor Faustus to work, because if Kit ever happens to come back, he doesn’t want to miss the opportunity to have that book signed again. And he knows this is just as foolish a dream as his hope of one day being as famous and respected as Kit Marlowe is, but finals are looming, and he can't afford the luxury of spending his days quietly freaking out in a coffee shop, not if he wants to keep his job.

*****

It's another week before Kit comes back, the bruises on his face barely faded, and new bruises already showing on his bare arms and a band-aid over a rather spectacular laceration on his temple. Will makes him coffee, and then his brain seems to short out, and he says "Did you clean that properly", with a hastily stopped gesture at Kit's face.

Kit makes a rather dismissive sound in return, and shrugs in a manner indicating that no, he did not.

Will fetches another band-aid from under the till, and the small bottle of disinfectant they learnt to keep around after realising that the new espresso machine was clearly evil. And then, instead of handing Kit his coffee and wishing him a nice day, he walks up to the man, and pries of the band-aid, and cleans away the dried blood with a papertowel and some iodine. Kit holds still, and Will isn't sure whether it's out of surprise, shock, or anger at his audacity. And so he just puts a new band-aid on the wound, and goes back to hiding behind the counter, shoving Kit's coffee at him hastily enough to spill some of it on his own hands.

Kit walks away once more, and Will has to go wash his hands and change his shirt, and berate himself for failing to get his book signed yet again. He does, however, manage to add 'strange reaction to pain' to his notes, and it doesn't even take him all morning to calm down sufficiently to do so.

*****

Two days later, Kit is back, sober this time, and without any new and interesting injuries. He is, however, carrying a package of band-aids. Rainbowcoloured ones, the exact same kind Will gave him the day before yesterday.

"Don't ask stupid questions, don't talk to people asking stupid questions, and don't waste your own resources on me," Kit tells him, and hands him the band-aids.

Will nods, and goes to make coffee.

"Actually, kid, just how gay are you trying to pretend to be," Kit asks suddenly, turning one of the flyers for some or other art-exhibition-performance-getting-stupidly-drunk-thing lying next to the till over and over between his fingers.

Will almost drops the coffee he just made, and tries himself that getting angry at his favourite author of all times just would not do. "I'm not that much younger than you," he tells Kit instead.

"Oh, you're already totally grown-up, and you don't work a shitty job with shitty hours to be able to take your girlfriend to prom," Kit says.

"I finished high school two years ago."

"Cute," Kit decides. "Interesting choice of subject to get angry about. So, again, just how gay are you trying to pretend to be?"

Will does not sigh, and does not shout at him, and tells himself that he is a responsible, reasonable adult, and that he can't punch customers in the face I he wants to keep his job. "About as gay as you, probably," is the response he settles for.

Kit gives him a measuring look, takes his coffee and leaves. Will tries to be angry for about ten seconds, and then he notices that the man, rude though he may be, at least left a more than decent tip.

He doesn't add anything new to his book this day.

*****

[and then stuff happens, and they kiss, but I'm sort of stuck here, so I'm just leaving this unfinished for now.]


	13. Chapter 13

Ray doesn't particularly like smarties, so he doesn't really know how exactly they made their way into what currently passes for his home. But seeing as he's out of milk, sugar, bread, cornflakes, or anything else that could make his coffee either more drinkable, or somewhat richer in calories, he decides that they will pass for breakfast just well enough. Half of them go into his coffee in place of sugar, and the other half he eats on the spot.

He drinks his coffee, gets dressed, and leaves.

***  
He gets through the eclipse, and ends up having dinner with Fraser a few times, and misses breakfast for several days. The next chance he gets to wake up in his own bed, at a time that might qualify as morning, with time enough for breakfast, there are no smarties anymore. Instead, there are several cartons of UHT-milk, a few cartons of sugar, and two packs of vacuum-sealed coffee.

He is fairly certain that he did not buy any of it, but it's too early in the morning, and the packages seem un-opened, so he doesn't think about it for long, makes himself a cup of coffee, lots of milk and sugar, sufficient calories until lunch, and if work is interesting, he might even make it stretch until dinner.

***  
It's a few days later, when Ray is close to running out of milk again, and they're trying to find someone who doesn't seem all that keen to be found, and Fraser suddenly leans closer to Ray, and starts sniffing him. Ray is too shocked at first to react, and by the time the strangeness of the situation fully registers, Fraser has already stepped back, his expression something close to a please smile.

"You've been eating more, I see," Fraser says.

Ray doesn't know what to say to that.

***  
The next morning, there is another carton of milk in the cupboard, where Ray had been reasonably certain there had been none yesterday. There is also a box of Lucky Charms. Ray pokes at them a few times, and decides that it's got to be better than coffee and smarties. He eats them, and makes a face at how terribly sticky-sweet they are. He washes them down with coffee with too much milk. Then he gets dressed, and leaves for work.

It takes him half a day to realise that maybe, he should be wondering about how exactly food keeps showing up in his kitchen, when he doesn't buy it, and he doesn't have any friends or family who would buy it for him.

And then Fraser shows up with something that might be either a threatening letter or a bad prank, and sniffs him again.

"That smells disgusting. How much sugar did you eat this morning?"

"You can smell that?" Ray asks, and "A lot probably, not that it's any of your business, why?"

Fraser just shakes his head.

***  
It's two days later, and the Lucky Charms have mysteriously disappeared from Ray's cupboard. In their place is a toaster and some toast. There are also glasses of Nutella, peanut butter and raspberry jam. Ray has sandwiches and coffee for breakfast, and when he and Fraser end up tied together to a supporting pillar in an empty warehouse, Fraser sniffs him again, and tells him: "Much better."

***

After that, there are no new breakfast-parts in Ray's kitchen. But the ones he already has, they keep being replaced just before they run out, and Ray would get suspicious, but instead he eats breakfast, and doesn't complain, not when the alternative is black coffee and smarties.

***  
It's a few weeks, and then Fraser starts showing up at the station at quarter to twelve every day when they are not running from or after criminals. And Ray can't decline an invitation to lunch, not when Fraser is so serious, and not when Fraser gets that look like a kicked puppy when Ray even thinks about saying no.

So he starts eating lunch as well, and it would be slightly ridiculous, how fun it is, just sitting across from Fraser at a tiny table in a badly-lit room, eating food of questionable quality but wonderful taste.

***  
Maybe Ray should be embarrassed how long it takes him to notice, but when Fraser starts picking him up after work the days where they don't accidentally end up chasing criminals, he finally understands.

"You're feeding me," Ray tells Fraser outside the restaurant Fraser dragged him to.

"Excuse me," Fraser says.

"You put that food in my apartment, and then you started buying me lunch, and now dinner, and I don't need you to take care of me, I'm not a child!"

"I'm sorry," Fraser says. And then he looks at the restaurant, and then at Ray again. "You smelt," and here Fraser hesitates for several moments, seemingly searching for the right words. "Lost," is what he settles for then. "You smelt lost, and hopeless, and you got better when you started eating breakfast, and then lunch, and I thought."

Ray holds up his hands, interrupting him. "You shouldn't think, then."

And then he turns to enter the restaurant, and tries to think of a way to tell Fraser that he isn't the only one lost here.


	14. Chapter 14

There are day when everything goes wrong. They start bad, and then continue being bad, and maybe, just maybe, if they're good, they might get even worse. And then it's evening, and everything is still terrible and exhausting and lonely and lost, and Ray gets to go back to his apartment, and he's fiercely glad not to have any other obligations, because those days, all he wants to do is sleep.  
There are other days, days that make him angry, make him go out, find someone to fuck (or someone to fuck him) in a dark alley behind a bar he would never want to be seen in. Those days, he can deal with, he might even like them, for the catharsis they offer, and the proof of bruises left on his skin and aches in his muscles.

But today, today is for tired, for locking the door, stripping off everything, and just falling into bed naked, forget about minor inconveniences like dinner or shower or brushing his teeth or anything else. It's not quite cold outside, and so even pyjamas are not quite needed yet, and it's barely half an hour before Ray is dead asleep, curled up around a pillow, making himself as small as possible, trying to hide under his blanket the best he can.

And then, there is someone knocking on his door and shouting. And Ray doesn't want to get up, doesn't want to do anything, doesn't want to be dealing with the world or anyone in it quite yet. So he curls up tighter, and pulls his blanket closer, and refuses to open his eyes. The knocking doesn't stop.

Ray is almost asleep again when it stops, only to be replaced by a far more worrying sound. There is a key turning, and then the door clicks open.

"Ray,?" someone calls out, and Ray wonders for a moment whether he should reply, and then realises it's Fraser, has to be Fraser, and he curls up tighter, and does not answer, because Fraser, with his unending supply of energy and optimism and idealism is the last person he needs right now.

Fraser, however, seems to be entirely unimpressed by Ray's non-reaction. Or at least, that's what Ray concludes from the sound of footsteps approaching his bedroom door.

Ray tries not to move, tries not to make any sound, and just hopes that Fraser will go away again.

Instead, the door clicks open, and then he can hear Fraser pause and reassess the situation.

"Hm," he says.

And then he's walking away again, leaving the door open. Ray considers getting up to close the door, and then decides not to, because Fraser is just going to open it again. And with the door open, Ray can hear Fraser doing something or other in the kitchen, and opening and closing various cupboards, accompanied by annoyed whispers and murmurs.

There is something clattering, metal spoon in an earthenware cup, and then footsteps again, approaching his door.

Fraser sets down something on Ray's nightstand, and then sits on the bed, next to the blanket-lump that Ray is currently pretending to be.

"I know you've had a bad day," Fraser says. "I made you hot chocolate, if that helps."

Ray grumbles something, and then decides that he might as well. Chocolate is calories, and calories now means he won't have to eat later, and then his stomach grumbles, and he realises that it must be far later than he thought, and so he flaps his left hand around until it's not covered in blankets any longer, and starts groping for his nightstand.

Fraser makes a sound that might be a laugh, and puts a cup in Ray's hand.

Ray grumbles again, and then pulls the hand holding the cup back under his blanket. It's the perfect sort of warm chocolate, with whipped cream and chocolate powder and marshmallows on top, and while Ray would usually prefer alcohol in such a situation, he figures that coming from Fraser, this is already rather amazing.

And so he drinks his chocolate, and after a few minutes, Fraser puts a hand on his shoulder, warm and heavy and grounding and Ray just wants to fall asleep again, because he feels like he's home, in a way he's never felt since Stella and him stopped working, and that might be embarrassing, but he's too tired to care much about embarrassment right now. So he puts the now-empty cup back onto the nightstand, and leans into Fraser's touch, and tries not to think about it too much.

And then Fraser takes a careful breath and asks: "Do you need a hug?"

Part of Ray wants to accept, part of Ray wants to shout that no, he doesn't need any hugging, but mostly, he's just remembering that he's naked under that blanket, and that it might be a good idea to decline that hug, simply because naked hugging, even with a blanket involved, might be just a bit gay, even for his and Fraser's standards of gay.

And then he decides that he doesn't care right now, and maybe he should just leave that decision to Fraser.

"You know I'm naked under this blanket," he says.

"Well, considering the fact that you managed to spread your clothes through the whole apartment, and you do not seem to be the type of person to wear pyjamas, this seems like a rather obvious conclusion, yes."

They are both quiet for a moment, and the Fraser asks, "Do you need a hug," again.

Ray takes a deep breath, considers the hot chocolate, and feeling lonely and lost, and Fraser leaving. And then he digs his upper body out of the blanket, turns towards Fraser, and tells him "Yes, please".


	15. Chapter 15

There is a wooden cabin Fraser is directing the dogs towards. And part of Ray is fiercely glad, because a house means civilisation, and other people, and clean clothes, and maybe even a hot shower, and all kinds of luxuries they had to do without for the last few months. And then there's another part of Ray that is curiously sad, because they didn't find the hand, and they didn't find anything else either. They just found the limit of their desire for adventure, and the limit of their abilities to not shower or shave or launder their clothes, and they'd agreed that it had been fun, it had been wonderful and magical and perfect, but it was time to go home. And now they're home, and their adventure is over, and Ray wishes they could just go back, start all over again.

And then they've reached that cabin, and Fraser doesn't knock at the door, and no one is coming to greet them, and now that Ray thinks about it, he realises that there isn't anyone living here, or at least hasn't been for rather a long time. And he turns to Fraser, wants to ask him, wants to know what's going on and where they are, and Fraser smiles at him, uncertain and shy.

"It's mine," Fraser says.

And Ray realises that even now, even after years of knowing Fraser, after months spent alone together, he knows practically nothing about Fraser, about his history, and his family, and his friends. Hell, he doesn't even know Fraser's favourite food. He doesn't know what kind of music Fraser likes, or the toothpaste he prefers, or if he wears pyjamas to bed.

And he watches Fraser feed the dogs, and unlock the door, and he follows him inside, and decides that this is going to stop now. Because Fraser is not going to volunteer this information, so Ray is just going to have to ask for it.

"Did you build it yourself?" is what he starts with.

"No, my father did," Fraser tells him.

"You grow up here, then?"

"No," Fraser says.

And Ray sighs, and wishes that Fraser was as talkative when it came to his personal life as he tends to be about his random but largely meaningless anecdotes.

"So, where did you grow up, and when did your Dad build this, and since when do you live here, and why did you never tell me you hand a house out here?" Ray asks him. "Why do you never talk about yourself?"

And Fraser looks at him, carefully and consideringly. "You never ask."

Ray shrugs.

There is a moment of silence, and then Fraser says: "I'll tell you about where I grew up. And in exchange, you let me wash your hair."

And Ray feels as though he's just been punched, because he can't let Fraser do that, he can't, because there is no way he can get through that without falling apart, can't survive Fraser touching him like that, careful and soft and loving, and maybe that's the reason why Fraser never talks. Maybe that's what's keeping him together, a badly kept secret instead an aura of carefully-protected distance.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," is what Ray finally decides to answer.

And Fraser smiles at him, understanding and soft. "You'll be fine."

Ray doesn't believe him, not quite, but he's willing to try for now. And his hair does need washing. "We'll try. And you promise to stop if this doesn't work."

Fraser smiles at him, broad and happy.


	16. Chapter 16

Ray doesn't really touch people all that often. Sometimes it's unavoidable, crowded and cramped spaces, or stumbling into someone, things like that. But really, he doesn't usually touch people.

So when he hugs the Mountie to say hi, he tells himself that really, it's just that he's not used to it, it's just because he can't even remember the last time someone hugged him, it's just because touching is not something he usually does. And the fact that Fraser just stood there, confused and missing his friend, that really can't have helped.

But still, there is something weird about touching someone, and so he decides to try finding out more, slings an arm around the Mountie's shoulder, and it's surprisingly easy, making their pace match, and it doesn't help at all, makes the situation even worse if anything.

Because really, it should not come that easy and natural, not when so far, Ray's experience of touching people usually ended up feeling like a truce or conquest, even with someone who invited his touch. With Fraser, though, none of that happens. And Ray doesn't understand why.

Then, of course, there's Dief, who decides that really, he likes Ray just fine, even if it's the wrong Ray, and it's tricky, trying to drive a car with a wolf licking one's face, but Ray manages, and as much as he complains, it feels almost nice, that sort of slightly sticky, smelly, but uncomplicated affection.

And they're walking along hallways together, and Ray, so used to keeping his distance, so used to keep the bubble of his private space to himself, still can't help brushing arms with Fraser, and it's strange, so strange, because he doesn't really want to be touching Fraser, not really, but there is this almost magnetic pull, this thing that doesn't seem to allow him to keep away.

And so he tries to figure it out, reaches out to tug the drapes Fraser's boss is holding, can't really make himself touch her, introduces himself with more bravado than actual flirtation, and leaves as quickly as he can.

And then there is the fact that Fraser starts touching him in return, feeding him a sandwich, which is just really strange, but when he gets a second to think about it, that's mostly due to the fact that the sandwich seems to be made from plasticine rather than actual food, and therefore tastes entirely disgusting.

And then the car bursts into flame, and Fraser tries to get Ray's foot of the brakes, and Ray is very decidedly not comfortable with that, and it's almost reassuring, knowing that there are boundaries, even for the Mountie.

And then he drives a car into Lake Michigan, because apparently, it's not possible to just get out of a burning car and call the firebrigade, because that would be sensible. Instead, Fraser insists on almost getting them drowned, and then helps Ray to climb back onto dry land again.

And then, because his life actually is that ridiculous, he manages to get himself shot, and falls against the Mountie, not passing out, but it still hurts, and he still has trouble breathing for a while, and he might have bruised or broken his ribs, and Fraser touches him, worry bleeding through his touch, and Ray would find it endearing, if it weren't so strange, still.

But he lets Fraser help him stand, and decides to stop worrying for the moment, following Fraser's almost magnetic pull, and maybe their first dinner isn't a date, not for any meaningful definition of date, but it's close enough, and Ray thinks that maybe, they might get there, given enough time.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this isn't going anywhere further, because i fell asleep before i could finish it. sorry 'bout that.

There are things Ray doesn't think about. Blank spots in his mind, clearly outlined, safety distance and all the wrong words and links and ideas carefully listed, because he knows he's broken, knows that there's something wrong with his mind, and he's had practice over the years. He knows how to keep himself from shattering, knows how to twist those bits and pieces into something useful, something helpful.

And Stella knew that, Stella had been there, every step of the way, every time Ray broke down, and every time he'd had to pick up the pieces again, and she'd never helped, she'd just stood there and watched him do it, and Ray had loved her for it. He'd thought it a blessing, that she didn't meddle, that she didn't try to fix or improve or help him.


	18. Chapter 18

There is a book lying on the windowsill in Fraser's office. And to Ray's astonishment, the bookmark moves back further and further along the pages every time he sees it. He doesn't know when Fraser finds the time to read, and he isn't even sure he wants to.

What he does, instead, is ask Fraser what the book is about. And Fraser doesn't blush or stutter or do anything else, really. He says: "It's a lovestory."

And Ray knows that he's embarrassed, he just knows, but he can't figure out why, precisely, that should be. Because Fraser isn't embarrassed about the fact that he's secretly a romantic, and Fraser isn't embarrassed about feelings, and really, the only thing Fraser is ever embarrassed about is not being an absolutely perfect, picture book, ideal Mountie. And how a book would do that, Ray wouldn't have the least idea.

So clearly, this book needs investigating. "Can I borrow it after you're done with it?"

And at that, Fraser actually blushes. "I don't think you would like it, really, it's not exactly everyone's taste, and…" he doesn't finish that sentence, and instead opts to mumble something.

Ray decides that he really, really, really, desperately, necessarily needs to read this book. "I'm not exactly everyone's taste, either," he says. "So, can I have the book?"

Fraser mumbles something.

***

It's a few weeks later, and Ray has come to the conclusion that Fraser probably wasn't ever going to let him read that book, and has probably managed to remove the request from his memory. Instead, one day, when he comes to work, there is a note on his desk, and a small package. The note informs him that Fraser is busy at the consulate, and probably wouldn't have time for Ray for the next few days, terribly sorry, but he hopes Ray might enjoy the book.

And then, underneath, wrapped in a brown paper bag, is the book. It's old, and someone wrote a price on the inside of the cover, faded pencil marks that tell Ray that whatever book it is, Fraser can't have owned it for long. Still, it looks well-read and well-loved, so it can't have been a bad story, not as such. There is no summary on the back that would tell him more, only quotes that tell him little more than what Fraser said.

And so Ray shrugs, and sets it aside for the moment, trying to catch up on paperwork while he gets the chance and Fraser isn't dragging him along into unexpected and wildly dangerous adventures.

***

He takes the book back to his apartment, not exactly comfortable with leaving something that would make Fraser blush in a public place.

And then, of course he starts reading. And at first, he doesn't really understand, because it's just about this boy's father leaving. But it reads fluidly and while Ray is fairly certain that he's missing some sort of important historical or social context, he really can't be bothered to look it up, and neither can he think of any immediate reason why Fraser should be so embarrassed.

He finishes the first two chapters before he realises that there is something wrong with that novel. Not with the morality or the language, but the story. Because in his limited experience, romance novels don't have male main characters, not really, and usually the final couple shows up in the first chapter or two, and so far, the only characters to have been mentioned have been male.

And then the scene switches again, to a hospital, and to talk of injuries and kissing, and then it finally clicks.

Ray has to put the book aside for a minute then. Because that is entirely unexpected that Fraser, of all people, might feel like that, might think like that.

And then he picks up the book again, intent on finishing it this night, so that tomorrow, he might talk to Fraser.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll also be posting this separately, because it did outgrow the story a day format a bit, but it'd feel weird to just leave a blank today, so yes this is double-posted. so sue me.

When Ben got his first part-time job as a tutor, he decided that he had been living with his parents for long enough, and found himself an apartment, a few minutes' commute outside of the city, but close to both the university and the library. His parents, of course, decided that they couldn't just leave their boy to fend for himself, they weren't that heartless. And they insisted on helping, and so it took only a few weeks before Ben had an apartment all to himself, kitchen and bedroom and living room and office, in a small high-rise in a suburb, with most of his neighbours being retired couples. Ben didn't mind. It was quiet, and if he forgot to lock his door in the mornings, nothing bad would happen.

Of course, things like this never lasted. He had just barely gotten settled when Kit happened. There was no other word to describe it, really, and Ben had spent quite some time searching the library for one. But there just was none to describe this boy, who stumbled into Ben's lectures always five minutes late, a curious mixture of drunk and hungover, and too clever by half once he was properly awake. Ben didn't mind him much. He was reliable in being always five minutes late, his work was decent if careless, and his contributions to discussions were worthwhile if one managed to overhear the less-than-appropriate language.

But there was something wrong, something just a bit off about this boy, and it got worse by the week. And then, the first week of December, Kit didn't show up after five minutes, and didn't show after ten, and Ben started to worry. He was packing his notes, trying to answer five questions at once, and wondering why people always insisted on asking the most inane questions at the most unsuitable of times, when the door to the classroom clicked open. Ben looked up, realised that Kit had showed up, almost an hour late, and decided that everyone else needed to leave now, because something was not good.

And then Kit stood before him, his head carefully bowed to hide his face, and Ben didn't think 'student', he thought 'Kit', and reached out, placing two fingers beneath his chin, pushed his face upwards very, very carefully. And as though that wasn't bad enough, when Kit finally met his gaze, Ben's first impulse was to touch him, to make sure this wasn't a trick of the light or carefully applied make-up. He managed not to, asked "What happened?" instead.

Kit smiled, wincing when it reached his eyes and then shrugged. "Minor disagreement with my father," he told Ben, fingers tracing the purple bruise blooming around his eye.

"Minor?", Ben repeated, disbelief as much as doubt in his voice. And then he decided that regardless of Kit's answer, this boy wouldn't go home again. Or at least, he wouldn't go alone. "I have a spare room, if you need a place to stay," he offered, and did not consider the possible unfortunate implications of that statement. Because Kit was brilliant in all the wrong ways, and he had more potential than anyone else Ben had ever met. And letting that potential go to waste in favour of propriety and decency was not something that could be allowed to happen.

And Kit smiled again, broader and less careful this time, and Ben knew that it was too late for proper or decent. And Kit slept on Ben's couch for the rest of the weekend, and on Saturday, they borrowed Ben's father's car, and went to pick up Kit's clothes and books and then to IKEA, to buy a bed that was just narrow enough to fit into Ben's office next to his desk. And of course, Ben had been raised to be polite, and so Kit got the actual bedroom, and Ben moved into his office.

And he thought he might regret it, the first few mornings, when he kept forgetting that there was a desk next to his bed, and managed to acquire a surprisingly large and varied collection of bruises. But Kit was good company, and when he wasn't trying to drown himself in whatever alcohol he could acquire, he was a decent enough chef, and Ben got used to him being around.

And it wasn't as quiet anymore, but having company during dinner, and having someone who would listen to his whining about students and papers was surprisingly soothing. And Kit, in turn, took care of all the mocking Ben couldn't do, and in the three weeks left before the end of the semester, his work went from careless and hasty to reckless and daring, and every time Ben managed to fall out of his suddenly too-narrow bed and then hit his head on his desk, he reminded himself that he made the right decision, and that Kit really was doing better, and that clearly, it had been worth it.

***

And then the holidays came around, and quiet settled again, time spent getting lost and found in the library, grading papers, shouting at the television and cooking terrible but creative meals. And they didn't get along, not really, not with Ben trying to take care of Kit, reminding him to wear a scarf or to take an umbrella because it was going to rain, and not with Kit criticising Ben for being too normal, too conventional, too reasonable and adult and proper.

But it was a good time, and when classes started again, Kit was usually on time, because Ben woken him up, and made him eat breakfast, and then dragged him along to catch the train to the city, because his commute was clearly more bearable if he wasn't alone.

And then there was a class on French love poetry, and Kit mostly took it because he was bored, and Ben because he knew better than not to take at least one French class every semester, if he didn't want to lose what little fluency he had acquired for the language.

And then, one morning, this boy showed up, a quarter of an hour late and looking as though he'd just rolled out of bed. And of course he sat right next to Kit, because everyone else tried to keep their distance, because everyone else knew that sitting next to Kit was going to be a terrible decision in a class one needed to pay attention to.

Kit rolled his eyes at Ben, and Ben shrugged, and they decided that for now, they might as well ignore the newcomer. Of course, they should have considered that that was not going to work, because it never did. Not five minute in, and a terribly flowery sonnet they should be analysing on the overhead projector, the new kid leaned closer to Kit and whispered: "Is it just me, or is this really, really gay?"

And Ben just let his head drop onto his notes, because of course that was going to happen, and he did not feel like hiding a body for Kit quite now. It was too early in the morning for murder.

"Yes. Problem?" Kit whispered back, and Ben was tempted to cross himself, because maybe, just maybe, one or another higher power might feel inclined to get him out of here before blood was going to be spilt.

The kid shrugged, and said something that Ben couldn't understand, but Kit seemed to almost melt into his chair, so it couldn't have been bad, not really. And then their lecturer found the next poem, and there was a few moments' silence while everyone tried to get their heads around the old-fashioned French, and then the kid whispered, clearly audible in the quiet lecture hall: "Is that a dick joke?"

And that was when Ben decided that clearly, whoever that was, he was worth keeping around, even if only for sheer entertainment value.

The smile the lecturer sent in their direction was surprisingly pleased, and for the remaining lecture time, Kit and the new kid were trying to outdo each other in finding the most inappropriate interpretations of the poetry under discussion, and trying to find the most inappropriate ways to describe said interpretations. And Ben sat next to them, far too amused to be embarrassed, and trying his best to keep up with taking down notes, because even if they would turn out to be hilariously wrong about everything, they must surely get some points for the sheer enthusiasm of their trying.

And of course, Kit wasn't going to let someone leave who managed to keep up with him, and Ben wasn't going to let someone leave who wasn't intimidated by Kit, and after lunch break, they knew that the new kid's name was Will, and that he had just finished an internship somewhere or other, and that he had never thought he'd ever go to university, and apparently, university was the best and coolest and most wonderful things ever, and Will was trying to take as many classes as humanly possible, because clearly, someone could decide to make him leave again any second now.

Ben did not want to know. He did, however, decide that they could do worse when it came to friends, really, and clearly Will was going to need someone who was just a bit more realistic and a bit less excited and emotional. And of course it spiralled from there, Will with his boundless enthusiasm always looking for advice, and looking for reassurance, and forgetting things like eating or sleeping or leaving the library before it closed, and Ben and Kit trying to keep him from hurting himself too badly.

Which was why after a month or so, Ben started expecting Will to come over for dinner, if only to make sure the boy would eat something. And Kit used that opening to make Will watch terrible television with him, and by the time summer began, Will had started keeping a change of clothes and a blanket in the drawer under the couch, and he spent the night more often than not.

And then the end of the semester happened, and Will turned all that badly focus enthusiasm onto learning biology, and Ben was amused for a while, and then confused, and then he finally asked, and in answer was presented with a waterfall of words about how there was this class about autopsies, and criminal medicine, and another one about psychology, and medical history, and it a chemistry class about various intoxicating substances, and it had been so interesting, and Will didn't think he'd ever get another chance to learn all this, and. And Ben had gone, and made Will a cup of tea, and then sat next to him, grading papers while Will tried to learn too many things all at once, with a countdown ticking to his next test.

Then, on an otherwise unremarkable Monday morning, just after Will had left to take yet another test, the doorbell rang, and there was a woman introducing herself as Mary, William's mother. And because Ben didn't know what else to do, he invited her in, and offered her tea, and hoped that nothing bad had happened or was about to happen.

"So, William told me he lives with you now?", she asked, and Ben realised that she might not look much like her son, but they had the exact same mannerisms and expressions, right down to their tone of voice.

But Will didn't live with them, not really, he was just crashing on their couch because he was usually too tired to remember that he needed to leave the library before ten at night, and because he tended to forget to eat if they didn't remind him, and Ben told Mary so, because he might not be a good person, but he knew better than to lie to someone's mother.

And Mary listened carefully, and then asked to see the couch where William slept, and Ben showed her, because there was not much else he could think of doing. And Mary was not bound by politeness or exhaustion or gratefulness, and after a few moments of examining the couch, she declared that it was not a fit place for William to sleep. In fact, she did not regard it as a fit place for anyone to sleep, and Ben readied himself for an argument, because as much as he believed in being polite and friendly, Will was old enough to make his own decisions, and neither Ben nor Kit were prepared to see him leave just because his mother was a bit worried about him.

And Mary must have seen something in his eyes, some sort of defiance or hurt or anger, because before Ben could say anything, she had already raised her hand, motioning him to be quiet, and declared: "No, don't worry, I'm not making him move. But really, you need a better place for him to sleep. Do you have any plans for today?"

Ben had thought about grading yet more papers, and maybe restocking the fridge, but that could wait until tomorrow, and really, he was strangely curious as to what, exactly, Will's mother was planning to do. "Nothing that couldn't wait, why?" he answered.

Half an hour later, he found himself in a strangely posh furniture shop, being dragged from one fold-out couch to the next, with Mary reading out description after description to him, and making him lie down on every single one, because young people of today, they just pick nice things, and don't consider comfort, and that was just wrong, and since William was currently writing a biology exam, Ben would have to be the one to find a couch that would be suitable for sleeping on.

Ben hadn't known that there were that many different couches even existing, and he hadn't known that it was possible for a single one person to have so many opinions on so trivial a subject, but he did as he was told, and wondered how he was supposed to afford every single couch that Mary seemed to consider even halfways suitable for her darling boy, and so he tried his best to find fault with all of them, desperately hoping that she would give up after a while, and he could just forget that any of this ever happened.

And then Mary found something even Ben couldn't find fault with, white fake leather, comfortable, and the colour fitting perfectly with the rest of the room, and it even came with drawers underneath, perfect for Will's steadily growing collection of books that he had started to build into questionably stable towers beneath the windowsills.

And then Mary was dragging him along to the next check-out, and Ben was desperately searching for a polite and subtle way to tell her that there was no way he could afford a couch like that, and couldn't they just go to IKEA instead, please, and at some point his worrying must have found a way through Mary's enthusiasm, because she turned to look at him, and he voice was almost soft when she asked "What's wrong, don't you like it?"

And Ben found himself forced to admit that no, he liked the couch just fine, there just was no way he would be able to afford it on a salary that had never been mean to provide food and housing for more than one person, and Mary starred at him in surprise.

"You thought I would make you pay for this?"

Ben nodded, desperately embarrassed, and wished for a hole in the floor to open and swallow him.

Instead, Mary hugged him, like he was a confused and scared child, and not a fully grown man. "Oh, you silly boy," she said, and "consider it a house-warming gift," and "William likes living with you," and Ben didn't know what to reply to that.

So he watched in wordless astonishment as Mary arranged for that couch to be delivered to Ben's apartment, and for a bill to be sent to her, and then used Ben's surprised inattention to drag him grocery shopping, and by the time five o'clock came around, Ben had somehow acquired a new couch, and a fully stocked fridge, and an invitation for dinner on Saturday, because Mary wanted to get to know her son's friends.

***

By the time autumn came around again, Ben had gotten used to the fact that Mary would show up occasionally with cookies or potted plants or decorative table cloths, or would invite herself for dinner, or would show up just before Kit started cooking, and take them out for dinner at whatever new restaurant she had decided she needed to try. And while Will was generally somewhat embarrassed about the attention, Ben and Kit were usually much too surprised at the fact that someone's parent could take an active interest in their child's lives, and yet be supportive and happy for them.

Of course, within the time of a year, Ben's apartment had gone from quiet and tidy to almost crowded and lived in, but the company was well worth the bother, he decided. And really, they've had all summer to get settled, and to get used to each other's presence, and to sort out the issue of privacy automatically arising with someone living in the living room.

And that was when everything changed again because then Tom showed up. And the first few weeks of his presence, neither Will nor Ben actually saw him. Because mostly, his interactions with them consisted of Kit flirting with him in a rather obvious attempt to make him uncomfortable, and Tom sending Kit terribly flowery and graphic and pointedly heterosexual love poetry in an attempt to return the favour.

And after about three weeks of listening to Kit's ceaseless complaining and ranting over dinner, Ben decided that enough was enough, and Kit had until Friday to ask Tom to come over for dinner, or Ben would do it himself.

Two evenings later, Tom showed up with flowers for Ben, and chocolates for Kit, and a library book that Will had been desperately trying to find for the last week. And Ben took a second to wonder how much of that courtesy was nervousness, how much was uncertainty, and how much was just another way of trying to annoy Kit.

And then, it turned out that Kit wasn't all that annoyed, not for any reasonable definition of annoyance, and that Tom, when he wasn't being obnoxiously heterosexual for Kit's entertainment, was a decent person to have around. And as much as Ben was certain that there simply was no space in his apartment for yet another person to sleep, he didn't much protest when Kit's and Tom's friendship went from occasional attempts at making the other a bit uncomfortable to an all-out war, where Tom would cover the walls of Kit's bedroom with pictures he cut out of various Playboy magazines and calendars and similar, and Kit in turn would do mature and rational things like seductively eating cornflakes, or kissing Tom for the most ridiculous reasons he could come up with.

By the end of the semester, their war had predictably cooled down, with both of them busy finishing all the necessary papers, and revising for exams, and generally trying to keep up with all the homework they had neglected of the course of autumn. And when the winter holidays started, and Kit spent several mornings poking his breakfast as though it had personally attacked him, Ben gave in. He went to find Tom, and then went to borrow his father's car, and then took Tom to IKEA, made him buy a bed and a small chest of drawers, and then some sort of fold-able room-partition-thing, and Tom moved from his room on campus into Ben's living room.

Will made faces at him for a few minutes, and then decided that really, there were worse people to share a room with, but if he ever got a boyfriend, they'd have to reconsider this. And Tom didn't react to that, didn't whine or complain or make gagging noises the way he would have done had Kit said the same thing, which pretty much confirmed that really, that was just his and Kit's way of awkward, non-sexual flirting.

Ben went to make dinner, and Will helped Tom to set up his bed, and then they rearranged the bookshelves and drawers until there was space for two sets of school books and notes.

And from then on in, Tom's and Kit's flirtations got worse and better at the same time, and Ben had stopped counting how often he found the two of them and Will passed out in front of the television, the intro to one movie or another on repeat, and the three boys in an awkward pile of blankets, pillows and empty cups of coffee.

It was peaceful, if crowded, and winter passed without much trouble, even if Will spend quite some time freaking out about yet another set of rather improbably exams and deathlines, and Mary started expecting four people instead of three for lunch on Sundays.

***

The last one to come along, to Ben's endless entertainment, was another Tom. And this one was a lot more like Kit than like Will or Tom. And Tom, in the interest of preventing further confusion, decided that really, if the next stray Ben was to take in was sharing his name, then, please, would they mind just using his last name, because that might make everything if not simpler, then at least somewhat easier understood.

And so Ben, one Sunday morning, switched out the sign on the letter box, and the one under the doorbell, and he should have done that long ago, but it had never really mattered, not when he was happily busy grading paper and cooking dinner and arguing about literary analysis and literature with anyone willing. But now, it seemed like really, something should be done, if only to show that no, really, his apartment was full already, and there was simply no space for anyone else.

So now the piece of paper he fumbled under the plastic cover read 'Ben, Kit, Will, Nashe, Kyd' in Ben's spiky cursive, and it didn't really matter that technically speaking, Kyd didn't live here, because Ben knew it was only a matter of time yet.

Because Kyd showed up with rings under his eyes and five minutes late for Ben's lectures, and his homework was handwritten and looked as though done in whatever time he had managed to find, broken-up sentences and hasty corrections, and clumsy, uneven letters, references added with pencil over dark blue ink, citations written in the margins in cramped and messy lines.

And Ben knew the rules, knew about online submissions and word documents and proper formatting, but Kyd's work was solid and thorough and while he lacked Kit's brilliance, his writing was well-researched and well-considered, and Ben didn't think failing him would improve his situation even the least bit, and so after the third essay Kyd handed him with the letters on the title page smudge with drops of either tears or water, Ben decided that something had to be done, and managed to inform Kyd that no, this was not acceptable, and could he please find a computer to type it up.

And Kyd seemed to fall apart at that, seemed to simply disintegrate, and Ben realised that no, he probably couldn't. And because there was nothing else to be done, not with a student who didn't meet his eyes and who didn't contradict him, and who seemed to have lost whatever hope he had left, Ben invited him over for dinner.

And then Kyd sat at their table, trying to make himself as small as possible between Kit's expansive gestures and Will's badly censored cursing, and he didn't eat much, and what little he ate, he ate as quickly as possible, as though scared someone would take it away again, and Ben decided that this simply wouldn't do. He had waited for proof when it had come to Kit, had waited for something to go wrong because he hadn't known what else to do. But it had been more than a year since, and he had learned his lesson.

So he let Will do the dishes, and let Nashe ask Kyd annoying questions about his studies, and dragged Kit outside and then down to the basement, made him sit on the basement steps and asked him for help.

And Kit was quiet for a long, terrifying moment, before he finally started talking, about being lost and lonely and not knowing where to turn to, and about writing papers when his father couldn't possibly notice, and about trying to fit in a full time job next to his classes because his parents could never notice, could never know that he was doing something as useless and worthless and university, and talked about fights and shouting and threats because being wrong and being unnatural was already bad enough without being wrong, and talked about how terrified he had been, when Ben had seen him, when Ben had reached out to help, because that never happened, not to people like him.  
And then, when Ben thought that everything had been said, Kit finally looked at him, and told him that even if it might be scary, and even if he might end up making the wrong decisions, it had been worth trying then, and it would be worth it now.

And Ben hugged him, and went to talk to Kyd.

Of course, by then, Will and Nashe had found their laptops and were already busy typing up Kyd's essay, and one of them had made tea and cookies, and Kyd was still watching then cautiously, as though convinced that any second now, they would turn to him, and do something terrible.

And Ben stood in the doorway for a while, watching them, and then decided that it was not going to get better if he didn't do something, and so he cleared his throat and when Kyd look up startled and frightened, Ben said "You can stay here tonight, if you want to, finish that paper properly this time."

And Will looked up and added "And then you can watch terrible soap operas with Kit, because shouting at the television makes everything better."

And Kyd turned to Nashe, because someone would send him away, would tell him that of course he couldn't stay, of course he couldn't have friends or fun, and Nashe smiled, and said "I have pyjamas you can borrow."

And Ben decided that even if his apartment was worlds away from the quiet and private space he had imagined it when he first moved in, he wouldn't change it for the world now.

Midnight found the five of them in pyjamas on Will's bed, cookie crumbs strewn all over everything, watching Disney movies and complaining about classes, and by the time the movie was finished and the intro had played for the second time, even Ben was asleep, still on the couch, because there was no way he could have disentangled himself from the others without waking them up, and while Kit and Nashe and Will might not mind so much, Kyd needed whatever sleep he could get, and Ben wasn't about to wake him up now.

Of course, the next morning his back hurt something terrible, and he couldn't turn his head without cursing from the pain lacing through his neck, but Kyd looked almost awake, and the rings under his eyes had gone from dark purple to grey, and he ate breakfast without complaint, so Ben decided that really, that trade was more than a fair one.

And that Saturday, Nashe and Kit went to get the rest of Kyd's clothes, and made their apologies to his parents, and decided to never return, and Kyd and Will and Ben went to IKEA, because clearly, Kit would need to share now, when every other conceivable sleeping space was already taken up. But of course, with Kyd being Kyd, and with Ben being Ben, they left with yet another bookshelf, and a mattress and bedsheets and pillows, but no actual bed, and that would be a disaster waiting to happen, but right now, none of them could bring himself to care.

And so there was yet another bookshelf in the living room, and Ben was entirely unsurprised to discover that between the five of them, they now owned five absolutely identical copies of the Illiad, and more translations of Ovid than any normal apartment should contain.

And Kyd slept on a mattress in Kit's room for the first two or three nights, and spent most of the time between midnight and eight in the morning curled up in a small, anxious ball on the kitchen floor, drinking tea and trying to disappear. And they had started standing watch, Ben sitting next to him grading papers from midnight to three o'clock, and then he went to wake Will, who would usually just sit there reading until around six, and then would go and wake up Nashe, who would start to make breakfast then.

And the fourth night, when Kyd once again couldn't sleep, and once again started to leave for the kitchen, so that at least he wouldn't disturb Kit, Kit grumbled something, and reached out for him, dragged him onto the much too big bed that used to be Ben's, and declared "No tea now. Sleep."

And then he curled up around Kyd, his leg slung over Kyd's, hugging him close, using his chest as a pillow, and Kyd held his breath for several moments before he realised that Kit probably wasn't all that awake, and then he realised there was no way he could get up now, not without waking him up.

And he resigned himself to another sleepless night, no more refreshing, but at least marginally more comfortable, listening to Kit's even breathing, and while he was still trying to figure out what, precisely, was so soothing about this sleeping arrangement, he was already dead asleep.

And the next morning over breakfast, Nashe was whining at Kit how 'make him sleep for even one night, please' was something entirely different from 'seduce him', and how really, could Kit stop corrupting people for one second even, and Will was giggling about a particularly terrible paper Ben had found, and Ben was cursing them all because today was his day off, and couldn't they have let him sleep a bit longer, and Kyd was drinking orange juice, still half asleep, with his head leaning against Kit's shoulder, and Ben decided that really, this had been a good decision. Because of course he hadn't found a quiet and well-organised and tidy place to live in, but he wouldn't regret this much, when instead he had found a home.


	20. Chapter 20

Laurie had, at age twenty-four kissed precisely three different people.

Andrew, in a moment of terrified realisation, broken up for want of a spoon.

Nurse Adrian, in a desperate attempt at reassurance and denial.

And Ralph, in a sunlit study, by way of an explanation words would never be able to adequately express.

And he had kissed Ralph again, so many years later, both of them broken and lost in a war that they had all desperately hoped was never going to happen. And he isn't sure he wants to count those kisses, because they had been worlds away from the simple touch they had shared in that study on that fateful summer's day.

So when spring comes around again, and Laurie is back at Oxford, learning to heal people, now that he knows how to hurt them, and Ralph is still in another city, and they barely find the time to see each other in between classes and work and the war, Laurie wonders if he would ever get to kiss Ralph again.

He meets people, people who know, and people who don't, and every now and then, one of the very few ones who just doesn't care, and he tries not to worry so much.

And when the term ends, and Ralph comes to pick Laurie up at his college, and drive him home again, the afternoon sunlight falls in a broad stripe across the worn wooden floor, and there are flecks of dust dancing in the warm air, and Laurie reaches out to close the door behind Ralph, and turn the key, and then reaches out for Ralph, refreshing well-loved memories.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was going somewhere before i got distracted. so. sorry. there'll be more at some later point.

There is a door. It's currently closed. In front of it, there are two men, wearing clothes that seem rather out of place in this century, outside of the theatres. One of them is holding something that might pass as a walking stick in the hands of a practiced liar. The other one is currently unrolling a small scroll, before realising that in the dark of the hallway, the letters wouldn't be legible.  
With a shrug and a sigh he raises the hand holding the scroll, and knocks on the door. Hard.

The momentary quiet is broken by the wail of a siren, followed by footsteps. Those events don't seem to be connected, for once, so they don't merit any attention.  
There is a slight, clicking sound, and the door falls open, leading into a spacious but empty room.

The two men enter, with a carelessness born of experience rather than naïveté. They move across the room quickly, their backs turned to each other, and if one weren't armed with a paper scroll, they might even seem intimidating to a casual or easily frightened observer.

Their observers, however, are anything but easily frightened. Currently, this status is mostly owed to the drunkenness of the one observer, and lack of consciousness of the other.

One of the men moves back to close the door, while the other goes to find the kitchen.

Five minutes later, the two observers are placed on one of the rather low couches, neither of them any closer to wakefulness yet.

The man with the scroll takes one more carefully measuring look at the other two, and then clicks his tongue. The other rolls his eyes, and the two observers snap awake.

For a while, no one says anything. Then, the man with the scroll sits down on the coffee table across from the people whose apartment they just invaded. "My name's Will. I'm looking for someone by name of," and here he stops for a second, finally consulting his scroll. "Sandy Reid. I've been told you live here?"

One of the men on the couch cautiously nods. "That's my name, sir."

Will nods, consults the scroll again. "In the interest of saving us some time, might you be able to tell us where we could find Ralph Lanyon, Alec Deacon, and Laurence Odell?"

The other man does not salute, in a way that clearly indicates that the action not undertaken was a salute and nothing else. "I'm Laurie Odell. What is this about?"

The man whose name is not Will pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm Kit, he's Will, we're here, we're queer, and we're supposed to educate you on large number of subjects. Also, I was promised motorcycles."


	22. Chapter 22

Laurie doesn’t exactly regret leaving Andrew his copy of Phaedrus, because while the small volume might connect and hold some of his fondest memories, he doesn’t need it anymore, not when he still knows it almost by heart, and not when he finally has the friend back that the book stood for in absence.

And Andrew needs the book more than he does, needs the comfort and reassurance his education and upbringing didn’t offer him.

But sometimes, when he moves the wrong way, or when he takes up his jacket too carelessly, he’s still reminded of the absence of that small volume in his pocket. And he doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t even consider replacing it, because it would feel like a betrayal, would feel wrong, to buy such a book, when it’s not about the book, but about the memory of a summer’s day, and about being given a both unexpected and undeserved gift.

And so he keeps reaching for a book that isn’t there, and expecting a weight that is missing, and if Ralph notices, he never says anything, never asks about what happened.

But then one day, with the sun falling just so through the windows, and the weather curiously warm for the season, Laurie comes back home from a walk, and Ralph sits on the armchair, reading something.

There is a moment of silence that stands in for a greeting neither of them quite knows how to phrase yet, and then Ralph stands.

"It seemed you were missing something," he says, and he holds out a book to Laurie, a small volume just as battered as the one Laurie had given away, yet clearly a different one.

And Laurie opens it to the first page, the name written on it in an all too familiar handwriting. And while the memories might be different ones, Laurie is certain they will be good ones just as well.

And he reaches out, not for the book, but for the man offering it, because they still aren’t quite certain about their words yet, and because there are things words might never adequately express.

And so he says thanks the only way he knows, with touches instead of words, the book caught between their chests, and Laurie smiles to himself, and thinks Plato would probably disapprove, but at the moment he cannot make himself care overmuch.


	23. Chapter 23

It's a few years after the war has ended, and Laurie is almost able to run again, accounting for muscles and sinews that don't work the way they should anymore. Which of course means that instead of counting his blessings and not pushing further, he keeps overexerting himself, determined to prove that even with a bad leg, he could still be a good doctor.

But sometimes, it just doesn't work, bad days when the air is cold and damp and his leg already hurts when he wakes up in the morning, and never quite stops no matter what he tries. And he has work to do, and people who rely on him, and no choice in the matter.

But even knowing that, this day is especially bad, and made worse by working with Sandy today, and their relationship might have improved over the years, through sheer exposure if nothing else. They're not friends, far from it, but they get along well enough that Ralph and Alec don't despair about them anymore.

And Laurie's leg has been hurting all day, and he's tired, and hungry, and cold, and stressed, and all of it is just getting worse and worse as the day goes on. And then, five minutes before his shift is over, five minutes before he could finally go home, there is an accident, an emergency, and Laurie can do this, has stitched wounds and set bones time and time again, but right now, he can't think, can't move, can't do anything but feel helplessly lost and overwhelmed, because it's too much, on a day that's been too long already.

And he stands in a hallway, somewhere, lost in thought and pain, and he should be going somewhere, should be doing something. And then there is a hand on his shoulder, and a familiar voice telling him it's okay, the next shift's surgeon is taking care of it, and Laurie doesn't know what to say, but feels like he's failed somebody.

And there's tears in his eyes, and the embarrassment makes everything just that little bit worse, and just before his leg gives out, there are arms around him, holding him close, holding him upright, and Sandy is running a hand through his hair, murmuring soothing nothings, and Laurie doesn't know how to react to that, because that's not what Sandy does, that's not how he and Sandy react to each other. And he tries to move away, tries to stand on a leg that hurts too much to carry his weight, and Sandy pulls him closer, holds him tighter.

"You're more a doctor than a queer, too," he says. "And you're doing well, even if I don't like you much."

And Laurie realises that not all is well, but neither is it all terrible. And for a brief moment, he manages to relax, and returns the hug, hiding his face against Sandy's neck for a second, breathing in the all too familiar smell of sweat and disinfectant, and he doesn't quite manage to say thanks, but he thinks Sandy might have understood him anyways.


	24. Chapter 24

Most of Ralph’s family is family he’s chosen for himself. Because really, having to leave school the way he did, his parents weren’t exactly pleased with him. And then the work he found didn’t exactly lend itself to try and fix it.

And so when he finds himself wounded in an army hospital, there is no one to come visit him, and it’s awful lonely for the first weeks. And then the priest who visited every now and again, trying to save lost souls or something else Ralph doesn’t really understand, that priest decides that clearly, Ralph is in need of saving, as well. And so one Sunday afternoon, that priest places a chair next to Ralph’s bed, and asks “Is there no one who comes to visit you, son?”

And Ralph doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to talk to a priest, not when most of him still much too clearly remembers feeling shameful and sinful and broken, not when his copy of Phaedrus has probably been lost and buried along with yet another boy who should never have been a soldier, and the war had still happened.

And before he can actually manage to put any of that into words, the realisation that people are dying, people he loved are dying, and it’s probably useless, all of it, all of the killing and dying, all done in vain, and there’s tears in his eyes, as much because of the anger as because of the grief. And the priest actually hugs him, holds him for what feels like hours, until Ralph doesn’t have any tears left, anymore.

And then, when the priest asks him what’s wrong, the only thing Ralph manages to get out is that he’s lost his book, and he can’t manage to say about Laurie, because he doesn’t have the words to express that loss quite yet.

A week later, the priest comes back, and talks to a few people, and Ralph doesn’t know what to do, when just before leaving, the priest walks over to his bed, a strange sort of half smile on his face.

And then he hands Ralph a small, unremarkable book that looks like it used to have a proper cover, once upon a time, but it’s only faded cotton weave now, no title, and Ralph opens it, finds ‘Thomas James Martin' inscribed in the top left corner of the inside of the cover. And he flips the first page, reads 'Plato: Phaedrus’, and chokes out a thanks that he isn’t sure is actually audible, but the priest, Father Martin, apparently, Ralph thinks, smiles at him, and says his goodbyes, and Ralph is almost sorry to see him leave.

And from then on, every Sunday, Ralph finds himself talking to a priest for a few moments, and wondering how this has become his life. And when he gets to leave the hospital, and finds himself in an office, trying to do paperwork instead of actual soldiering, because that’s apparently what he’s good for, now.

And he meets people, and makes more and less stupid decisions, and somehow when things get particularly bad, and when he feels entirely lost and useless, he finds himself back at a small vicarage outside the city, talking to Father Martin again, and in the beginning, he tries to gloss over or skip all the things he doesn’t consider suitable for discussion with a priest.

But then he learns that Laurie survived, and learns that he didn’t guess wrong all those years back, and he tries lying about it at first, and when Father Martin asks him if he’s in love, he says no almost as a reflex, and then almost blushes as the Father smiles at him, a curious mix between kind and knowing, and Ralph doesn’t know what to do about that, doesn’t know how admit a truth when most of it would still be a lie.

And he says “I think I might be”.

And Father Martin smiles, and asks “Is he a nice boy, then?”

And Ralph doesn’t know how to react to that, doesn’t know what to do or say, but he does manage to blush violently. And nod.

And of course, it doesn’t fix or improve anything, but there still is reassurance to be found in the fact that there is someone who knows about Ralph, and still doesn’t judge him, and so maybe Ralph can’t bring Laurie home to meet his parents, but when the war is over, and he and Laurie have finally settled into something that might almost count as a stable relationship, and Laurie talks about how he sometimes wishes he could tell his mother about Ralph, when she’s asking if he found a nice girl to marry yet, and Ralph decides that maybe neither of their parents could ever know, but maybe family really isn’t about blood, but about choice. 

And so one Saturday afternoon, he takes Laurie’s hand, drags him to the car, says ‘There is someone you need to meet’, and Laurie is curious, and then worried, and then angry, and then worried again, because usually Ralph tells him where they’re driving, and there is something strange about this silence.

And then, of course, they arrive at the vicarage, and Ralph takes Laurie’s hand again, doesn’t let go even when Laurie sends him a doubtful look, but at least he doesn’t pull away.

And the Father Martin comes to greet them, and when he sees Laurie, his smile turns strangely proud. “So, this is the boy you’ve been telling me about?”, he asks, and Laurie doesn’t know what to do but nod and smile, and Ralph grins broadly, and maybe his parents don’t talk to him anymore, but having Father Martin’s blessing might be more than enough to make up for that.


	25. Chapter 25

It takes surprisingly little skill to handle a rapier, D'Artagnan found. The only problem with this is that his skills don't hold up to Athos calm and practice.

And so he practices and practices, drills until there isn't a single part of his body that doesn't hurt anymore. He dreams of duels, parries and counters and attacks, yet somehow, every single time he finds himself fighting one of the men appointed as his teachers, his mind goes terrifyingly blank, and all that keeps him with even the most remote of chances of not getting killed is muscle memory and reflexes.

And he can't figure it out, switches styles and weapons, switches his rapier for a bastardsword and dagger, switches back to a rapier, doesn't lose the dagger though, and it doesn’t help. None of it does, and Athos lectures him on not letting himself be provoked, Porthos tells him he needs to forget about honour or glory and instead fight to survive, and Aramis smiles at him and mocks him and tells him he needs to relax, trust his blade.

And D'Artagnan tries to follow their advice, tries to do as he's told, and he practices drill with his eyes closed or his hand tied behind his back, practices when he's so drunk or tired or hurt he can barely remain standing, practices every waking hour, reads any sort of fencing manual he can find.

He gets through fights and duels against all manners of villains and guardsmen, and he does well, does brilliant, in fact, if Monsieur de Tréville is to be believed, but the second he stands across from Athos, Porthos, or Aramis, none of that matters anymore.

They're trying their best to teach him, and weeks go by with no adventures, yet D'Artagnan finds himself covered in scrapes and bruises from training fights, and his muscles are continuously sore. And he still can't figure out why he's so useless at actual duelling, when he can handle his sword and dagger just fine, under any other circumstances.

Of course, that's where he gets himself properly injured for the first time, after almost two months of quiet and serenity, he finds himself facing Aramis once more, rain beating down on them and the floor of the courtyard muddy and slippery, and Aramis attacks him, careless as he always is, and D'Artagnan twists aside, counters, loses his footing on the wet ground, and Aramis of course decides to use that to his advantage, and D'Artagnan finds himself falling again, Aramis' hand just catching his head before he hits the ground.

And he lies there, in the rain, water running into his open eyes, and there is a curious ache in his right arm. And Aramis is shouting something, and then there are people looking down at him, worried and frantic, and finally someone touching his arm, bandaging him, he realises.  
And he's lifted up, carried inside, someone helps him to take off his shirt, rolls it up, and D'Artagnan finds himself lying on the wooden floor of Monsieur de Tréville's office, his own shirt as a pillow under his head, and Aramis is looking down at him, frowning carefully.

"You didn't have to do that," he says, something not unlike anger in his voice.

"Do what," D'Artagnan asks.

Aramis starts to answer, a phrase that might, at some point in a hypothetical future have been not dissimilar to 'you know exactly what you did'. He stops himself before more than the first syllable passes his lips, however. "You honestly don't know," is what he says instead.

D'Artagnan shakes his head.

Aramis looks at him, carefully, as though seeing him for the first time, and there is something like wonder in his eyes, and something like anger in the shape of his lips. "You don't know," he says again.

D'Artagnan, at a loss what else to do, shakes his head again.

"You've been protecting us," Aramis finally tells him.

D'Artagnan shakes his head, because forming words is difficult right now, and he wouldn't know what words he should be forming at the moment.

"You would have hit me."

D'Artagnan shakes his head, a decisive no this time.

"You would. Might have torn my shirt, might even have left a scrape along my arm. And then you turned away, trying not to hit me. And I didn't expect that," Aramis says, doesn't explain further, just gestures at D'Artagnan's arm. "You've been protecting us, it seems. Holding back."

"I haven't!"

Aramis smiles at him, almost kindly. "You don't have to, you know. Musketeers aren't easy to kill."

D'Artagnan still feels like he should be protesting, should be denying what isn't exactly an accusation, but very close to one.

"You need to trust us if you ever want to learn. We can't teach you if you're not willing to fight."

D'Artagnan blushes at that. And he doesn't apologise, because that's not what Aramis wants. "I'll try to do better next time," he offers.

And Aramis smiles at him properly this time. "That should do, then. You won't need stitches, this time. But if I find you doing this again, I might decide they're necessary. Just as a reminder."


	26. Chapter 26

D'Artagnan might not understand the city, not in any meaningful way. He does, however, understand stories. And he knows that after challenging a man to a duel to the death, there are only two possible ways the relationship might develop in. One of them were to finish the duel, kill the other man or get killed himself. The other option is to become best friends. And there is now little chance of killing Athos, not after he just helped save his life.

So D'Artagnan goes to buy some wine, and then finds Athos' lodgings. There is a voice at the back of his head informing him that what he is about to do would likely prove either suicidal, or at least incredibly stupid. Which, of course, could be used to describe pretty much everything D'Artagnan has done since his arrival in Paris.

He raises his hand, knocks at the door, and then waits patiently for Athos to shout something, and then walk to the door, and yank the door open, and stare at D'Artagnan angrily for several moments before he steps back, gesturing for D'Artagnan to enter.

D'Artagnan hands him the bottle, and Athos takes it slowly, as though worried it might attack him. Once the bottle is in his hands, though, he doesn't lose any time opening it, and pouring two cups. He doesn't say thanks.

They drink in silence for a moment, while D'Artagnan tries to find something to say, some way to start a conversation with a man who doesn't show any sort of expression apart from mild and perpetual amusement and annoyance.

And then Athos tilts his head back to drain the last drops from his cup, and meets D'Artagnan's gaze straight on. "If you're trying to seduce someone, you might have better luck with Aramis," he says.

D'Artagnan feels his cheeks grow hot. "I'm not," he protests, sheer indignation preventing him from saying the word.

"What is this, then?"

D'Artagnan is silent for a moment. When asked like that, his idea really seems rather silly, now. "Well, I thought, maybe, that, I mean, we should, maybe, if you like, only of course, uhm, so…"

"You thought that, what, exactly?" Athos interrupts his stuttering.

"We could be friends," D'Artagnan forces out.

"We could be friends?"

"That's what happens in all the stories," D'Artagnan tries to explain or perhaps excuse himself.

And Athos shakes his head, pours himself another cup of wine, and then finally gestures for D'Artagnan to take a seat on the one chair in Athos' room. "Tell me those stories then, my friend."


	27. Chapter 27

There is peace to be found in dancing, Aramis finds. And so when he learns that D'Artagnan doesn't know how to dance, what he feels is more pity than surprise. And then, of course, he immediately offers to remedy this sad deficiency.

D'Artagnan blushes, and turns him down.

Aramis shrugs, and doesn't offer again. Instead, he watches D'Artagnan get lost and lose himself in Paris, watches him being too tall for his body and too clumsy by half, watches him as he gets himself into more trouble than any reasonable person should be able to.

And Aramis desperately wants to offer help. He forces himself not to.

Constance happens, and Aramis is reluctantly entertained by how clumsy and helplessly adorable she and D'Artagnan are together, and how awkwardly Monsieur Bonacieux tries to cling to Constance, and tries to force her into faithfulness. And then his heart breaks, as Constance leaves his best friend for a man who doesn't know love from dependency.

And again, he forces himself not to offer.

And then, a month later, once D'Artagnan has run out of tears and anger and denial, the boy turns up at Aramis' door with a bottle of wine, and asks to be taught dancing.


End file.
